


Everybody Was Kung-Fu Fighting

by Enigel



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Cracky, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-17
Updated: 2011-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-14 20:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigel/pseuds/Enigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin gets in trouble and is pulled out of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody Was Kung-Fu Fighting

**Author's Note:**

> A quick and un-betaed ficlet, because the plot bunny latched unto my hands and wouldn't let me finish my other WIP masterpieces. Not to be taken seriously until further notice. Do not attempt this at home (or, indeed, anywhere else).

Martin wasn't sure what possessed him to go into that bar. Why he was in that particular suburb was easy to explain: that was where the job had been; the time of the day - late in the evening - was unavoidable: it just took that long to heave and drag the entire contents of a small business from one seedy part of London to another using one shoddy van and one exhausted aviator.

And then the petrol had run out - apparently fuel gauges could be as unreliable and deceitful as wall charts, especially when they were conspiring to make his life miserable - and Martin had decided to treat himself to a taxi and come back for the van first thing in the morning. The bar had just happened to be right there, and since he wouldn't be driving, and it had been the kind of day that could only be summed up with "God, I need a drink", he went in.

He really wished he hadn't. The men were rowdy and careless, some football club that they seemed to favour had lost again, and Martin had received more than one involuntary beer shower on the way to the counter. He stood, glum and weary, sipping some generic tap ale that wouldn't set him back too much. A man bumped against him, nudging him with an elbow, then turned to mutter "Watch where you're going!" at him. Martin made himself smaller and let the comment pass without a word. He really wanted to leave, but felt too embarrassed to do so. He'd have to nudge the man out of his way, or go round him and nudge a dozen other burly, low brow drunkards. He felt trapped. Not even his time off work could turn out right, could it.

"Hey, that's my place," a thick voice said, interrupting his musings, at the same time that a paw approximately the size of a landing train descended heavily on his shoulder.

"How can a vertical column of air be your place?" Martin muttered - low enough not to be heard, but feeling an inadvisable anger rise in him.

"What did ya say?" The man scowled and cupped a hand to his ear, as if to hear properly. "I didn't hear that."

"I said I was going out anyway," Martin said.

"I don't think that's you said. I think you said something else," the man persisted, grabbing Martin by the elbow. The first man's friends were beginning to take notice, and they all looked like they could take even Dirk the groundsman in a fight.

Martin was about to insist that really, he did say that, and flee as soon as possible, when a young, cultured voice joined them.

"I believe the gentleman said that you can't lay claim to a vertical column of space, and I'm inclined to agree with him. Punk."

They all turned simultaneously, like cartoon characters, to look at the owner of the perky voice. There was a tall, lanky boy, covered in a whole jumble sale's worth of '90s punk paraphernalia from head to toe, and in terrible goth make-up from brow to chin.

"Hey, look what we've got 'ere!" a man exclaimed happily. "Didn't ya hear, punk is dead!"

"Yeah, shouldn't you be in bed, little rebel boy?" he cooed mockingly.

"With this one!" another man added, pointing at Martin, and a roar of laughter from the others erupted.

"I don't know who you are," Martin hissed to the boy, "but these guys look dangerous. I think they might have," he gulped, "knives."

"Knives? How cowardly and despicable," the boy said snidely, and then added "Punk!" as an afterthought. Something about his voice was _very_ familiar to Martin, though he couldn't have said what.

"'ey, who ya callin' a coward?" the first man growled. He released Martin's arm and pushed the young punker in the chest.

Martin held his breath.

"Ha! You hit me! Punk!" the boy yelled gleefully.

Martin experienced the oddest feeling of deja vu. He flinched and ducked instinctively, heading toward the shadowy safety of a table.

"Kaa-ya!" he heard, right before people began flying through the bar.

* * *

"You may come out now, Captain Crieff," Kieran said, for it was indeed him. "You are still a captain, I presume?"

Martin crawled shakily from under the table - which was solid and welded into the floor, luckily. Kieran extended a hand to him, and Martin regarded it with apprehension before remembering that they seemed to be on the same side today.

"Um. Hello," he said feebly once he was vertical again. "And yes, I am the- a captain."

"Then, Cap'n, let's get the fuck out of here," Kieran said decisively. "Hah! I've always wanted to use that phrase."

They emerged into the street and walked quickly to put some distance between themselves and the bar.

"Kieran, I... Sorry, I can't seem to stop staring at your _nose ring_."

"Ah, do you like it? I got it this week," Kieran said proudly.

Martin wished he hadn't asked about it, and baring that, that he'd taken more lessons in lying from his FO.

"I-I-I, um, not for me, you know, I'm more, er, conservative, but - ah, it suits you?"

"Hmph." Kieran deflated a bit. "I must be doing something wrong then. Adults are supposed to disapprove of it. Although I suppose approval from _you_ shouldn't necessarily count as a setback," he continued, pondering. "You could be part of the bad company I'm surrounding myself with."

"I, um, thank you, I suppose," Martin said warily. "Better than being part of the people you're fighting against, definitely. Kieran, I'm sorry, what's going on? What's with the sudden change of outfit?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Kieran frowned. "I'm having my teenage rebellion phase."

* * *

"So you just- decided you'd get it over with."

"It is scientifically proven that men who have never traversed a period of rebellion in their teenage years will perform below parameters later in life. Speaking of which, Martin, have you had a period of acute rejection of family's and society's expectations?"

"Well, if approval by one's family is taken as measure, my mother and siblings are still sort of against my choice of a job."

"Hm, this is exactly what I was talking about," Kieran said, puffing from a cigarette. Martin wrinkled his nose, but didn't dare say anything. He was supposed to be the supportive ill-reputed entourage, after all, and he preferred to remain on Kieran's good side. "You now live in a state of permanent rebellion, which as a current fellow rebel I think is pretty cool. Bro," he added, punching Martin lightly in the shoulder. Martin winced.

"I thought rappers were with the 'bro'," he said warily.

"Pah! That's conventional and stereotypical. Rebellion is all about crossing boundaries and defying labels."

"Of course it is," Martin sighed. He thought he understood now the concept of a "rabbit hole day".

"How's your grandmother taking all this?"

"Predictably, she refuses to understand the need for breaking away from the family's tutelage before I can fully develop my potential. She's pissed," Kieran added, smiling, the first smile Martin had seen from him. "Which is the whole point, so I think I'm doing it right."

"You definitely are," Martin agreed heartily.

He hadn't thought the miserable day could be salvaged, but the thought of "Auntie Ruth" - covered in chocolate mousse like he'd last seen her - confronted with Kieran's gleaming piercings was going a long way towards cheering him up.


End file.
